The Hand God Dealt You
by Sar'Kalu
Summary: ExtremelyAU. PostWar. Harry Potter stands above their dead bodies and wonders at the hand that God has dealt him and makes a decision that changes… everything…


**Title**

The Hand God Dealt You

**Author**

Sar'Kalu

Summary

AU. Harry Potter stands above their dead bodies and wonders at the hand that God has dealt him and makes a decision that changes… everything…

Disclaimer

Harry Potter is the intellectual property of J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury, and Warner Brothers and their affiliated. Supernatural is the intellectual property of Eric Kripke and Kripke Enterprises and their affiliates.

Rating

M: violence, explicit sexual acts and blood and gore. References to abuse and sexual abuse.

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**Chapter One**

Desperate Dealings

The memory of her smile haunts him. That wide opened mouthed grin and shining eyes that echoed his own joy as they stood side-by-side in their Wedding Photo. Brief though their time together had been, he still remembered the way his movements had been frenetic and full of joy at the birth of their son, his godson.

He had found them silent and still at the base of a far-away tower. No one knew for certain, but most certainly suspected. The picture in his pocket feels alive with guilt and a terrible sadness that felt more real than his godfathers disappearance two years ago.

As he stood above them beneath a sky of iron, he could see the peace of their death lying upon them, eyes closed and mouths shut even as they reached for each other, fingers never truly meeting. Like true Gryffindors, brave until the last, and like true Hufflepuffs, they were loyal until the end.

_Their son would never know them._

He was seized with a desperate and terrible realisation that this was history repeating itself. That the man and woman at his feet were not just his godsons parents; but his own. Lying dead, surrounded by rubble and ruin. A sad reflection of the world around them.

The wand in his hand was a heavy burden to bear, ridged and worn by countless years, countless hands, heavy with power and responsibility. He waved it. Swish and flick. The words were unsaid but echoed in his head like a resounding bell, tolling and clanging high above his head.

He turned, wand guiding his still puppets behind him, their bodies stiff and unmoving. _Less than twenty-four hours dead_, Hermione's words whispered to him, a memory of her eyes unseeing and horrified shimmered before him. Rigour Mortis was akin to petrification, as though Death wished the living to see the pain, the horror and the fear that Death brought.

He shivered.

The Whomping Willow still stood a silent sentinel upon the grounds, the lake and rolling grounds a serene backdrop for the tree that was stained a bloody red, scars of white wood the only sign of its own personal fight with friend and foe alike. Bodies lay beneath its bloody boughs, broken and still bleeding. Their faces, those that could be seen, gaping up at the sky in horror and confusion.

A twist of his wand tip and a long, thin piece of wood hovered and then moved, prodding the knot at the base of the trunk, paralysing the vicious tree. He paused long enough to tidy up the remains beneath the great bole while the bodies behind him floated serenely, patiently waiting his attention to return to them.

He directed the remains of his friends through the passageway and into the Shrieking Shack. The dusty floors and walls showing the movement of many feet and the stain beneath the window had borne witness to a brave mans death, hours before. _A brave man_, he admitted silently to himself, but one he is unwilling to forgive. Not just yet.

He conjured, to the best of his ability, two wire framed beds, side by side, and upon them he lay his friends out. The man, long nosed and tawny haired, still reaches for his wife with high cheekbones and dark hair. Her enchantments must have failed in her death as all others did.

Strange how things happen, is it not?

He would have thought the Metamorphmagi would have been exempt of that rule, given that they changed their bodies biologically, not magically. But then, he supposed that they did so using magic, and it was magic that fails after death, not science.

He stood above them tiredly, his shoulders aching and chest burning and yet tears did not fall. He wondered at that, why he could not cry, but then, he guessed that he wasn't entirely with it. That e wasn't ready for it. He wondered when he would be.

Wand extended one more time, he flicked the tip and vanishes the blood, dried sweat and mud from their clothing. Leaving them unnaturally pale and still. They look like Vampires, he realised and with a shame-faced expression, cast a glamour so that they appear to be sleeping. Not quite able to deal with the understanding that they would never wake.

And they wouldn't, he knew that. He just wishes, more than anything, that he could do something to change that. His godson deserved better. He deserved better. They all did.

He turned then and made his way back up the passage, not entirely assured in his path but determined nonetheless. He would have two days at least, to search for a way. Any way, to fix this.

Climbing from the passageway and out into the cool sunlit evening, he paused long enough to gather friend and foe from the base of the Whomping Willow tree and guide them across the lawn to where the dead are being processed.

He is met in the Entrance Hall by Ron and Hermione, their names able to be thought without pain or rage because of their lively, _living_ faces split by bright smiles as they catch sight of him; only to sober as they watch him slide passed, his macabre procession following him.

"Did you find them?" Ron asked, his voice grating in the silence. The redhead had become even more irritating in the past day. Unwilling to face his brothers death, Ron had been determinedly upbeat in the face of such destruction. In the face of mourning families devastation. "Remus and Tonks, I mean."

Harry stopped and looked back at his blue eyed friend and his expression is void of any kind of warmth. "No." He lies easily now; too numb to give even a flicker away.

He turned his face away and continued on; met once more by McGonagall and Shacklebolt in the Great Hall, he is directed to lay his collection beneath one of the great stained glass windows, where their pale muddy faces shine with unnatural colours like they are kaleidoscopes or refracting prisms in the sunshine.

He turned his face away, too unused to such peace on faces that had screamed at him, spat at him, cheered for him. Friend and foe. Men and women. People, just like himself. He smiled bitterly as he leaves the Great Hall, Death is the great balancer of us all.

Pureblood, Mudblood, Halfblood; they all died the same, without dignity and riddled with fear.

Harry is no longer sure what he fought for. Not any more. Looking out over the once-battlefield, through the ruined Castle corridors, all he can see is death and the ghosts of peoples last actions. Spells, screams and hysterical laughter. All combine into a cacophony of noise.

The handle of the Elder Wand is warm in his hand as he enters the Library and stands in the middle of the stacks. Shelves rise taller than his head, towering above him like the teeth of a great beast. He raised his wand and summoned a book.

Leather bound and pages trimmed with gold leaf. Handsome and heavy, the book soars into his arms and he carries it over to a table. He is over seventeen, nearly eighteen. The Restricted Section no longer barred his entrance or his summons. Stamped on the cover in bold, gold letters reads a single word: _Demons_.

He has read this book before, he knows what it says. He had sought the word Horcrux inside during his sixth year, hoping to bypass the necessity of interrogating Slughorn and dealing with his oozing manner that reminded him all too forcefully of his Uncle's business dinners.

He cracked it open, the ancient pages creaking and smelling of must and mould. He skimmed the index with one long finger, tracing letters and words with the narrow tip and smiled as he lingered over a chapter title:_ Crossroads Demons and their Deals_.

He turned to the chapter. It is short and brief, explaining ways to contact the Demons and how to phrase a deal. The book continues on, explain about the ramifications of a deal and that the bigger the deal, the less time you will have.

Harry knew all this. He has read it before; but sometimes, it's better to be certain than unsure.

He sent the book back before wiping his magical signature from the room. He left in the same manner as he arrived, silent and careful. Each foot barely scuffing the ground as he walks, one hand gripping the Elder Wand, the other, tangled up in his Invisibility Cloak.

The ring is where he left it, forgotten and lost in the Forest. Where it belongs. He has no desire to disturb the dead, not like that. He ignores the irony of that particular thought in regards to his up and coming deal with a Crossroads Demon.

He won't just be disturbing the dead, he will be ripping them from their eternal rest.

Hermione and Ron have disappeared since his brief exchange with the new Minister and Headmistress and he doesn't feel their lack as he trudges up to the Common Room and collected the tin, photograph of himself and a stick of yarrow from Neville's potions kit and trunk. Pocketing the items he slipped to the window and kicked it open, Seamus' broom in hand and flies towards the West.

In the far western corner of the School grounds can be found ancient burial sites and graves where those who lived and worked at Hogwarts have been buried. It is here that the grave sites of Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff and Rowena Ravenclaw can be found. The Founders on their very own hallowed soil.

Harry stood next to a lone grave, the worn serpent and scuffed name prove the occupant to be either very old or reviled. Ron, in the single time he had crept here, had postulated that it was Slytherin's final resting spot. Hermione had been furious.

Harry crouched and grabbed a fistful of the heavy, deep, dark loam and poured it into the tin that already held his photo and the yarrow. Now all that was left was the bone of a black cat, and there were plenty of black cats in Hogwarts.

By the time dusk had fallen and then given way to nightfall, Harry held the body of a black cat, the pink collar and bell gleaming cheerfully beneath the guttering torches of the dungeons. He smirked as he ripped the forearm of the cat free and with a flick of his wand, shredded the flesh from the white bones.

The cat had belonged to Pansy Parkinson. Harry felt as though this was a kind of justice.

All that was left now, he thought as he closed the lid of his tin over the white bone unmarred by flesh nor blood, was to go to Hogsmede and summon a Demon.

Slipping free of the Castle unnoticed was unnaturally easy, even with the horrified screams of the Slytherins echoing up from the dungeons. Perhaps they had found the collection of cats he had butchered. It was ever so hard finding one without white spots or markings.

Harry smirked as he slunk through the gates and made his way down to the empty village that stood in smoking ruins. The Death Eaters had not been kind to the small village. The fire had burn bright and hot, burning children, men and women within as it devoured everything in sight. Even the unwary Death Eaters who had started it.

Now it was abandoned by all whom had once called it home; and for Harry, that made it perfect for his next actions.

Hogsmede was small, there was no denying it. With High Street running North-South bearing all the shops and two pubs and Merlin Avenue overlapping High Street and running East-West. It was here, at the crossroads of two streets, that Harry would dig his hole and summon a Demon.

Harry checked once more the contents of his tin before unearthing a small, six inch hole with a flick of his wand. It was over in seconds, the tin place inside and the earth replaced once more with yet another flick of his wand.

Now all he had to do was wait; and wait he would.

The trees whispered as the winds wailed through the rustling leaves and Harry listened half-heartedly. The moon crept steadily skyward and he knew that soon, he will no longer be alone. It is close to midnight when a foot crunches on gravel behind him and Harry turned slowly, wand extended but unthreatening.

A man, if he was that at all, stood there illuminated by moon- and wand light. Dark eyed, dark haired, pale skinned and dressed in the very best that Muggles can offer. His suit is sharp and crisp, fitted in a way that suggests personal tailoring.

"Harry Potter," the Demon announced, its eyes bleeding black as it smiled nastily.

Harry tilted his head slightly in acknowledgement. He stayed silent, unwilling to converse with a being at least fifty times as powerful than he. He's brave, not stupid.

"Well, well," the Demon drawled as it drew ever closer until he is less than an arm-span in front of Harry, its pallid features unnaturally pale and its eyes showing just how dangerous it was. "This is a surprise; and such a delightful one at that."

Harry made no movement, cocking his head to the side, his wand still trained on the creature before him. The Demon smiled even more broadly.

"Why so shy, boy?" The Demon held out its hands disarmingly, as though it couldn't comprehend why anyone would suspect it. "You called me remember?"

"You are to bring Remus John Lupin, Sirius Orion Black and Nymphadora Andromeda Tonks Lupin back from the dead," Harry finally stated.

The Demon allowed a flitter of surprise to cross its face before exploding into laughter. "No, no, no," it chided calmly, wagging a finger. "That's not how it works, we banter first, dear boy, then," it smiled in dark amusement, "_then_ if you amuse me enough, _then_ I might help you." Its smile stretched far enough to bare his teeth, all eighty-four, slightly too sharp teeth.

"What would you have me say?" Harry asked tiredly. "I have done the ritual, I have told you my request, now all that remains is for you to tell me your counter offer."

The Demon regarded him carefully, "you don't care, do you?" The smile faded into a feral sneer, while the Demons flat, black eyes blazed. "Why should I help you, _Wizard_? What can you possibly give me, that entices _me_ enough, that I give _you_ what you want?"

Harry raised an eyebrow, "what do you want?"

The Demon stilled, dumbfounded. "You do realise that this is more fun if you shout or scream at me? You've _lost_ your father figure, your uncle figure and your friend and potential new aunt. How are you so calm?"

"I fought and won a war today," Harry said indifferently, shrugging.

The Demon let out a malicious snarl. "You think you won, boy?!" Its shoulders straightened and the Demon drew itself up, incensed. "You have not won the _War,_" and Harry could hear the capitalisation in the word, "you have not won _anything_!" The Demon sneered in cold fury, its dark eyes flashing with rage. "You know not what you toy with, boy! This was barely a battle, _the War has yet to truly begin_!"

With those ominous words, the Demon made to disappear, refusing Harry's bargain.

"Wait, no!" Harry shouted, true desperation bleeding through him. "What do you want?"

The Demon regarded him silently, its face expressionless. "I want you to swear your mind, magic and life to stay out of the coming confrontation. To give up your Mastery of Death. To allow the Dark to triumph over Light."

Harry returned the Demons steady gaze and then sighed heavily, "no."

The Demon smiled darkly, "well then," it held out its hand and backed away. "I'm so sorry, but I can't help you."

"I said I wouldn't steal clear," Harry said loudly, his eyes determined. "I never said I wouldn't die in their place."

The Demon stilled, shocked. "You would go to Hell ten years before your time?" It queried, a vicious smile spreading its lips. "Truthfully," it admitted, "I adore you foolish Gryffindor types that sacrifice yourselves so easily. Very well, you go to Hell and in return your Godfather, Uncle and Aunty dearest are all returned to the living, whole, safe and sane."

"And of no memory of their deaths," Harry stipulated carefully. "Of no memory of wherever they ended up."

"Their minds will not remember," the Demon agreed carelessly, "I cannot tell you how their bodies will fare, however. Death is such a changing thing."

Harry nodded silently, his eyes fluttering shut. "One last boon," he said finally to the curious Demon.

"Speak and I shall grant it," the Demon allowed.

"Make my death unsuspicious," he said quietly. "I don't want my friends hunting down a supposed killer. Let me pass easily and without their worry to follow me."

"As you wish," the Demon said, stepping forwards and pressing their lips together. As the Demon drew back he smiled darkly, "I'll see you on the other side. Run, boy."

Harry smirked at the Demon, curling his lip in contempt. "I have never run from Death, Demon, nor will I start now."

The Demon rolled its eyes in mild annoyance, "Gryffindors."

There came an awful growling behind him and the heavy thud of massive paws. Harry stood still and allowed the Hell Hounds to sniff his hands, curious as to why their prey was so calm and composed. Harry flinched when the first beast bit into him, pain blooming excruciatingly across his arm and he screamed, long and loud.

As he was torn to screaming, howling shred by the feral Hell Hounds, the Demon watched and laughed, high pitched and cruel and Harry knew the Demons name and felt dark amusement unfurl deep within his soul. At least he would have a known companion in Hell, even if he did hate the mans guts.

Perhaps this wouldn't be so terrible after all…

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**A/N:**

Hello my darlings,

This is going to be updated very sporadically as I have many, many other fictions to finish first and they get precedence. That said, read, review and let me know of any mistakes. I do hope you enjoy, ApatheticAndDeathlyHarry will be back.

Kindest regards,

Sar'Kalu


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